Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
brISTOL IMMEDIATELY SHIFTED into character. “So,” she said, twirling around. “What do you think?” She held her breath.
He strode toward her, the pillbox tumbling to the floor as he stood.
She tried not to gape as the pills came tumbling out.
“You look stunning,” he said.
“Thank you.” She gazed back at him, then shifted to grab the pillbox contents.
“Let me help.” He knelt beside her.
Keep your cool, Bri. You’ve got this. Apparently, she could even lie to herself, though not convincingly.
She scrambled for the bug, but it wasn’t there. Oh no. Did Dalton have it? She swallowed and looked up at him.
“Here you go.” He slipped the two vitamins and one pill into the case. No bug.
Thanks, she thought half to herself and half to a God she didn’t believe in, but who’d been on her mind more and more since Aubry Marshall returned to her life. She didn’t want to ponder why. Besides, now was not the time. She had a bug to find and a killer kneeling beside her.
“I didn’t know you took vitamins,” Dalt said.
“Trying to be healthier.”
“Good. Stay nice and well for me for years to come.” He stood and reached out his hand.
She took it, catching a glimpse of the tiny silver bug under the bed before he pulled her to her feet.
Great. She’d just have to hope he had no to reason to look under the bed.
Aubry leaned his elbows on the back of his chair, waiting for Bristol. The apartment—his new office until this was over—lay shrouded in shadows. Only the dim lamp by the sofa remained on.
He raked a hand through his hair and stood, bumping the chair out from under him with a tap of his foot.
The legs screeched along the wood floor.
The comms had gone silent for twelve minutes this morning.
Twelve minutes he’d feared the worst. They, thankfully, picked up again, but his throat had nearly squeezed the air from his lungs first. And now she was far later than anticipated.
Panic sifted through him. Where was she?
The clock read 10:59 p.m. They’d left the restaurant forty-five minutes ago.
Dalton said he’d take her home, so Aubry had hurried to beat them there.
He didn’t want Dalton seeing him rush in.
Couldn’t let Dalton see him, period. Dalton had been present when he’d arrested Bristol.
Maybe he wouldn’t remember him—it all happened so fast—but maybe he would and then they’d both be sunk.
The knot in his stomach twisted. He should have stayed on comms outside the restaurant, been the one to make sure she made it home safe, but Tom had offered, and Aubry had let him so he could already be in his apartment, waiting for her.
He yanked his phone out of his pocket and dialed Tom.
The phone trilled.
Three rings, and then another. His shoulders tensed.
“Yes?” Tom finally answered.
“Where are they?” Aubry forced his voice to remain level.
“They went for a walk in the park.”
“And you’re . . . ?”
“In the van.”
“You mean no one is watching them?”
“I didn’t want to risk discovery. I’ll see them as they exit the park.”
What good did that do if something went down in the park?
He grabbed his jacket and opened the door, the phone still wedged between his shoulder and neck. Thankfully, voices echoed up the hall.
Bristol’s voice. Her laughter.
Thank you, Lord.
Relief swept through his body as the adrenaline burned out.
He stepped back into his apartment and closed the door in near silence.
“They’re here,” he whispered.
“What? How?” Tom asked. “That’s . . . not possible.”
“I’d brush up on your tracking skills if I were you.”
He hung up and positioned his eye against the peephole.
A second of staring at Bristol’s door, then they came into view, Dalton holding her hand and her holding a bouquet of lilies in the other.
“Well, here we are,” she said.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
Aubry looked down. A sensation he hadn’t experienced before shifted through him. He looked back up. Dalton was walking toward the elevator.
“See you when I get back from my trip, my love,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ve got something special planned.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, and, trust me, you’ll love the surprise.”
The elevator beeped.
Aubry turned and slumped against the door.
He was being ridiculous. He never lost his cool like that. Never on the job and most certainly not in his personal life. Which begged the question, When had this become personal to him?
She stood by the door, waiting.
Ten minutes after Dalton left, at least. That’s what Aubry said. Make noise in the apartment, turn on the TV, then sneak across the hall.
She glanced at her watch as she moved to turn on the TV.
Only five more minutes. She made noise in the kitchen.
Got a glass of water. Crumpled a bag of chips, then moved for the door.
She looked through the peephole as guilt sifted through.
She rarely experienced guilt. It was not in her wheelhouse, but tonight it was very present.
Aubry, who she had to admit seemed to be a genuinely good guy, only revealed the stark contrast between his morals and hers. White to black, and she hated it. When had things turned bad for her?
She exhaled a dry chuckle.
From birth.
She hadn’t had a chance to be a kid, and it’d tarnished her. She’d learned her mother’s skill set from a way-too-young age.
Actually, outdid her mother. Became the best, but she’d kept her cons to the guilty while her mother and father preyed on the guilty and innocent alike.
She touched her lips, the memory of Dalton’s kiss lingering. Her stomach roiled. This was harder than she’d imagined, in more ways than one.
Fifteen minutes in, she opened the door, checked the hallway, and tiptoed across, holding a measuring cup. Who’d buy her baking at eleven fifteen at night—who’d buy her baking period? But she was following orders. Aubry gave her suggestions. Baxter barked out the orders.
Without a word, she stepped inside Aubry’s apartment, and the door shut behind her.
She turned to face him, guilt rearing its head again. This time over Dalton’s kiss, oddly enough. She hadn’t initiated it and certainly hadn’t wanted it, but it was part of the con of catching Dalton. It was gross, and the thought of it soured her stomach, but why guilt?
She swallowed, knowing why. The reason was standing in front of her, but the notion alone was absurd. A good man like Aubry could never fall for a girl like her.
“What happened?” He finally broke the silence standing between them.
She narrowed her eyes. “What happened with what?”
“Your comms were out for twelve minutes.”
“They were?” She touched her necklace. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. I was just . . .”
She stepped closer. “Just?”
He cleared his throat. “Just worried about you.”
“You were?”
He nodded, and the words left her mouth before she’d realized it. “I found a second office behind a wall.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
She nodded. Had she seriously told the Feds the truth? No. She’d told Aubry the truth—all except the money.
“In the bedroom. That would explain why the comms went out.”
And there went the unspoken lie. She’d spent a lifetime lying, and now not speaking the truth was killing her. What was going on? She was on one of those spinning rides at the fair they never got to go to as kids—everything was discombobulated.
“Let me check the mic in your necklace just to be sure.”
“Okay.”
He moved behind her, and his fingers tickled the back of her neck, sending goose bumps rippling over her.
Please don’t let him notice.
“Sorry. This clasp is a bit tricky. . . . Got it,” he said, the necklace slipping from her skin, his hands going with it.
He stepped around her. “I’ll get another mic in, maybe two for good measure.” He cocked his handsome head. “Are you cold? I can get you a sweatshirt.”
Cold. Yes. That was a far better response than It was your touch. “A little,” she said, and it honestly was a bit nippy.
He laid the necklace on the table. “I’ll grab you a sweatshirt and bump up the heat.”
“The sweatshirt should be enough,” she called after him as he disappeared into his bedroom.
“It’s no trouble,” he said, hangers rattling.
“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“I’m good,” he said, exiting the bedroom, a blue sweatshirt with white writing on it. “There is a bit of a chill. Here you go.” He handed her the sweatshirt, and she opened it up, ready to pull it over her head when she got a full view of the lettering.
FBI lined the back in white letters.
“Really?”
“Only one I had.” He shrugged.
She slipped into it, the sleeves a half dozen inches longer than her arms. “I suppose it’s very ironic.” She smiled, rolling up the sleeves.
He smiled back. It was a different smile than she’d seen before. Soft, tender, with a spark of passion.
Passion? She shook off the thought. Great. Now I’m reading people wrong. That’ll be really helpful with Dalton.
“It looks good on you,” Aubry said, breaking her out of her thoughts.
She blinked. Was that a blush on his face, under his five o’clock shadow?
He cleared his throat. “I just meant . . . you look adorable with it three sizes too big.”
Adorable? Had he really just said adorable, or was she hearing things?
He swallowed. “I’d better check the mic.”
She wasn’t letting him off that easy. She stepped toward him. “You think I look adorable?” Had it been passion in his eyes, but a pure, loving kind?
“I—” He cleared his throat. “Yes.”
She stepped a bit closer, ignoring the warning bells clanging in her ears. “The sweatshirt is adorable, or I am?” She held her breath. What was she doing? Had she lost her mind?
He studied her with his deep gaze. His lips parted, then shut.
She inched closer, not letting him off the hook. Something compelled her forward.
He cleared his throat again. “Both,” the hoarse, whispered word spilled out.
She rose up on her tiptoes and ever-so-gently pressed her lips to his. Had she lost her ever-loving mind?
He held still. Very still. His lips on hers—warm, soft, and tentative at first, then he deepened the kiss, his body mere inches from hers. He caressed her shoulders in tender circles, leaning into her, and then, all of a sudden, he braced his hands on her shoulders and pressed back.
She opened her eyes, confusion and humiliation rumbling in her gut. “I’m sorry, I—”
“No need to apologize.” He stepped back, raking a hand through his hair. “I . . . we can’t do this.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Can’t?”
“Not in this situation and . . .”
She furrowed her brows.
“Come over here.” He led her over to the sofa, and she sank into the squishy pillows.
She waited for him to sit beside her, but instead, he knelt in front of her and took hold of one of her hands, his touch lovingly tender.
“I want—” He cut himself off.
She scooched forward, her knees knocking her chest. “What is it? Do you regret the kiss?” Please say no.
“No, of course not. It’s just . . . you should be treasured. Kissed by someone . . . someone you’re in a relationship with.”
She thought they were headed that way, impossible as it was.
“You should be with someone who loves and cherishes you.”
Which meant he didn’t.
Humiliation pierced hot in her chest.
He clasped her hand. “I just want better for you. Better than me. Better than in these circumstances.”
“I understand.” She stood and headed for the door. The kiss had been a mistake. No matter how he packaged it, he regretted it. “’Night.” She stepped through the doorway, and this time, didn’t look back.